


A Welcome Surprise

by Polished07



Category: Mary Russell - Laurie R. King, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Happy Ending, I know this won't be everyone's cup of tea, Infertility, Mary Russell being a badass, Miscarriage, Planned Pregnancy, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Unplanned Pregnancy, authentic characterization, basically what I think would happen if Russell and Holmes, but I sat down to write and this is what came out, got pregnant after being married for a while, please do not read if this topic will be triggering for you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:14:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27976422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polished07/pseuds/Polished07
Summary: After years of marriage, when Mary Russell finds herself unexpectedly pregnant, she isn't sure how to tell her husband, Sherlock Holmes. Swept up in a case of kidnapping, arson, and ransom money, how will she ever find the time to break the news?
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Mary Russell
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	A Welcome Surprise

**Author's Note:**

> Dear Readers,
> 
> If you are a fan of the Mary Russell series like myself, you know that this particular story's topic extends further into the personal lives of Russell and Holmes than we are used to seeing. 
> 
> I kept their characters as real-to-canon as possible. I wanted to write emotion, heartache, and personal moments between the two of them that we do not see in the books. 
> 
> There is some violence, but nothing more graphic than we see in the novels. 
> 
> I wanted to show a side of them we are not used to seeing, one that felt missing in my own heart. Hopefully this Russell/Holmes adventure fills that gap for you as it did for me.

Being the wife of Sherlock Holmes generally meant a life of grand excitement. He called himself retired, however I knew him as anything but. 

Our latest adventure had taken us through Spain chasing a stolen artwork, and after many days of uninterrupted travel, the mystery had been solved and our adventure came to an end. We had gotten away nearly unscathed, but the final encounter with the thief had resulted in a nasty scratch across my husband’s arm, where a bullet had grazed and fortunately missed its main target.

The time immediately after we solved a case was as docile as our lives got. Holmes’s mind, after experiencing adequate exercise, left him in a pleasant mood. The satisfaction of bringing another case to a close had us both in good airs as we reversed our travels and made our way back home, to Sussex. 

The train ride soothed our aching bones. We telegraphed ahead to Mrs. Hudson, so we knew that a satisfactory hot meal awaited us on the other end of the rail line. Holmes read the paper on the train, and I read over his good shoulder. I dozed off soon after our departure, the rhythmic rocking of the train and the gentle glide of my husband’s fingertips across my hand sending me to sleep. 

Our cottage was as we left it. It was our sanctuary against the world, containing our laboratory, library, and beehives. Walking through the door felt like a weight taken off my shoulders, and the aromatic scent of dinner filled my nose. 

Holmes and I ate in comfortable silence, both exhausted from our adventure across the sea. Mrs. Hudson fussed over us as she always did, and we let her do so. It had been days since we sat down last for a proper meal together. 

Feeling invigorated after dinner, Holmes asked me to join him in the garden with a bottle of wine and glasses already in hand. We sat in the garden chairs, enjoying the early summer evening. In the distance we could see the beehives, and the breeze found its way through the trees and grass, rustling the foliage. 

“This case took more out of me than I expected, Russell,” Holmes said, his lips a thin line, his hand holding his arm where the bullet had grazed. 

I looked over at him, really looking at him. He didn’t seem any different to me; he was still the same Holmes I had met all those years ago. We had been gone almost two weeks, which was a long time for us on a case, but I had not thought anything of it. When it came to Sherlock Holmes, it was impossible to tell what you were getting into until you were already in the middle of it. 

Holmes took another sip of the honey wine. “Perhaps I am getting older than I feel.”

I shrugged. “Age is arbitrary. This past trip you proved both your body and mind to be able to keep up with me, which is really all you need to be concerned with.” 

A faint smile crossed his lips, his eyes on the horizon, his hands absently playing with the gold wedding band I placed on that finger years ago. “You did warn me, when I proposed to you. You said I needed both feet underneath me if I wanted to be married to you.”

“And I meant it,” I said, giving him a taunting grin. Together we watched as the last of the orange sky faded into the darkest of indigo blues. 

.:.

I drew a hot bath when I arrived upstairs. Holmes was in the laboratory, checking in on the experiments he left mid-trial when we departed for Spain. Whenever he went there after dinner, there was no anticipating how long he would be, not that I let it affect my own evening’s plans. 

In this cottage, we orbited each other like planets do stars. After living together so many years, the quiet intimacy that surrounded our activities allowed us to be ourselves while maintaining our partnership. It would not be the same if he was not there, as I would feel off balanced, like my own center of gravity was off, but when I knew he was in the next room, it was enough to keep me grounded. 

The steam from the bath water invited me in, and I stripped off the traveling clothes and let the pins out of my hair. My whole body seemed to ache as my arms extended over my head to shake out the tangled tresses, but the pain soothed as I sunk into the hot water. 

Suddenly, searing pain fired up my chest. It wasn’t the water, no, but my breasts, my nipples, felt like they were on fire. I sat straight up in the bath, surprised, and cradled my breasts to my chest to soothe them. 

I examine the area, searching for the source of the discomfort, but there was nothing. I was startled by the sight of my breasts though, for they looked different, as if they were not my own. I had never had a voluptuous figure, and I guess I still didn’t, but there was a round fullness to my chest that hadn’t been there before. Ever so slightly, they filled my hands a little more than I remembered. The most startling thing was my nipple color, usually a soft pink, now the color of late summer plums, and the sensation of my hands over them was almost too much to bear. 

I took a breath, trying to recline into the water again but to no avail. I settled for letting some of the water out of the tub, leaving my breasts open to air, so I could lay back comfortably. 

This was a new experience. My mind, still sluggish from the long day of travels and wine, mulled over the sudden changes to my body. Surely it wasn’t—no, it wouldn’t be. There had to be a perfectly logical explanation. 

Only the more I thought about it, the more logical it became. Women had babies. I knew well enough how it happened, I just never expected—I felt my face flush. I placed my hand over my lower abdomen, flat and taught, my cool wedding ring against my skin. Perhaps it would happen after all?

Holmes and I had discussed this once a long time ago, so long ago that I barely remembered the conversation. The conclusion we reached was that we wouldn’t prevent such a thing from happening, but both of us thought it unlikely we would be able to conceive anyway, and neither of us wanted to actively try any time soon. I had said at the time that I doubted if my body would let me, after the trauma it had received in the car crash when I was a teenager. My husband had nodded in silent contemplation. Without saying, we were both thinking of Damian, his son, now grown and with his own family. We knew Holmes was able to procreate, at least he was around twenty-five years ago, but as to now, it was a question neither of us could answer. We continued in our routine of wedded bliss, and the subject had not come up again. 

Until now. The fates had heard our indifference and were now laughing at us, laughing at me, sat in my bathtub with a hand over my probably pregnant belly. My cycles, which were never regular, had been absent for a considerable time now, longer than usual. I never made much note of them, but it had been weeks since I had last been indisposed. In combination with the way my breasts felt now, and the exhaustion I had mistakenly pinned to our travels abroad, it all seemed so perfectly obvious. 

I thought of my husband, of his comment earlier this evening about feeling too old. Was this the change of pace he needed? Or would this be an unwelcomed surprise that divided our relationship forever? 

The bathwater was cold. I got out and toweled myself dry, my mind occupied, the stress of the discovery weighing on my shoulders. Except the longer it was there, the less it felt like stress. I was adjusting, I suppose, because deep down inside, I felt at peace. 

.:.

I sat on the bed with the book I had been reading before we left for Spain. My eyes moved across the page, reading but not registering the words. I nearly jumped when I heard my husband’s feet start shuffling up the stairs. 

Holmes entered our bedroom, his hair still wet from his own bath, fully dressed in pajamas, bathrobe, and slippers. He eased onto his side of the bed, slid his feet out of his shoes, and pressed a warm kiss to my forehead. He grimaced as he twisted, his free hand flinching toward the injury on his upper arm. 

I quickly placed my book down. “Let me help you,” I said. 

He nodded agreeably. 

The wound was still fresh, red and raw, but it did not look infected. I changed the dressing carefully, discarding the old and wrapping it neatly with the new, like I would have wanted someone to bandage my own arm. My deft hands neatly pinned it in place; I had done this countless times over the years. I knew his body as well as I knew my own, knew the temperature of the skin, the smoothness of it, the way the muscles hugged the bones. We were so familiar with each other that I could probably do this in my sleep. 

“Thank you,” he said when I had finished. 

I nodded, placing the wound kit back where I kept it in my bedside table. Nearby, since it was frequently used.

He settled on his back next to me, laying quietly. I picked up my book again, but the words floating meaninglessly through my consciousness. I sighed and went back to start the same paragraph for the fifth time. 

“Do you want to tell me what’s on your mind?”

I looked over at him. Of course, I was a fool if I thought I could keep this from him. I closed the book and set it on my lap. 

“Not yet, no,” I said. Perhaps I couldn’t hide it for long, but I wasn’t ready to share my secret with him just yet. I wasn’t even sure if there was a secret to be kept. 

His eyes closed softly. “I thought not.” 

It was not rudely intended. Holmes had the ability to read my expressions so well, it could not be helped. He also had patience with me, the kind of patience that comes with trust, because he knows that I will let him in when I want to, and that he will not have to coerce me into telling him things. He trusted my judgement. 

I placed my book on the bedside table and turned off the lamp. 

“Russell?”

“Yes?” 

“I’m glad we’re home again.” 

.:.

I awoke to the ringing of a phone. The house was still dark, so it was the middle of the night, and usually only emergencies were put through in the middle of the night. Emergencies for Sherlock Holmes. 

We hadn’t been home a week yet from Spain, and the phone was already ringing to call us away again. 

The phone continued to ring. I thrust my leg over to my husband’s side of the bed, impacting somewhere along his warm body. “Holmes,” I muttered. 

He drew a sharp intake of breath, followed by a groan. 

“Holmes,” I said again, a little louder this time. My husband twisted in the sheets, sat up, and drowsily pulled on his bathrobe before slumping down the hallway. I heard the low tones of his exhausted voice answer the phone. 

It seemed only a minute later, for I must have dozed off again, that I felt my husband’s warm face against mine, his facial stubble prickling my cheek as he said in my ear, “It’s Watson, Russell. We need to get to London.” 

.:.

As I drove us through the dark roads, the sun just rising in the east, Holmes filled me in on the phone call. 

It was Mycroft, his brother, who had been made aware that Dr. John Watson had been missing since that morning. Watson was my husband’s dear friend, and even in their age I knew they depended on each other. The thought of something terrible happening to Uncle John sent a cold feeling through my stomach. 

That or the morning sickness, my brain reminded me. I pushed the thought aside. 

My husband, once he filled me in, sat silently in the passenger seat, his hands steepled in quiet thought. Now was not the time to mention the baby. 

Last night wasn’t the time either, or the night before. I had not mentioned my suspicions about the pregnancy, and while no new symptoms had arrived, the others had not disappeared. I had no reason to doubt that I was, indeed, with child. When I first married, Mrs. Hudson had been sure to educate me on the ways of married women, and I had meticulously memorized the information for a later date, if not for myself, then perhaps for some case down the line. My deductive reasoning, however, told me all I needed to know. 

I picked up speed in the car as the sun continued to rise, rapidly approaching the busy streets of London. 

.:.

Mycroft awaited us in his London home. The three of us sat in the parlor for tea, as we discussed the events of the day prior. I ignored the fact that the pleasantry my brother-in-law greeted me with was complementing me on how radiant I looked. 

Mycroft had eyes throughout the city, extending sometimes into the surrounding parts of England. Naturally, he kept eyes on Watson, as he had a well-known history of being a close confidant of Sherlock Holmes. There were times when criminals would use Watson or myself to get to the greater threat at hand, the greatest detective the city had ever known. That was what we suspected to be amiss here. 

“He was followed into a crowd at the market yesterday morning, and then he vanished. We never saw him after that. He has not returned home or to any of his commonly frequently stops. He even had an appointment yesterday that he failed to show up for.” 

Holmes said nothing, just sat thinking. 

The doorbell rang. “About time!” my husband exclaimed, leaping out of his chair and dashing toward the front door. 

Mycroft and I exchanged a glance before following close behind. 

“Don’t touch the telegram!” Holmes exclaimed at the house servant answering the door, who froze, confused. Holmes snatched the telegram from the delivery boy and stalked back towards the parlor. 

Mycroft apologized to the servant and paid the delivery boy before joining his brother in the adjacent room.

Holmes analyzed the paper, looking at it from all angles. He smelled it, then drawing out his pocket knife, he sliced it open and read aloud: “Watson alive, pay us for the royal sapphire and you will see him again, you have until midnight.”

Holmes scoffed at the message, handing it to Mycroft. “Unbelievable.” 

“What?” said Mycroft, reading the telegram for himself. 

“Nobody enjoys a mystery anymore. What even is this nonsense, coming right out with what they want and when they want it? Boring!”

“But who is it from?” I asked. “What royal sapphire?” 

“There’s only one I’m acquainted with, and it was many years ago, on behalf of some royal whose-it of the time. Some other family had their family’s prized gemstone, and they wanted it back. It wasn’t a particularly riveting case. It wasn’t even good enough to make it into one of Watson’s stories.” Holmes sighed. “It was only an afternoon’s interest, something to fill the hours, in exchange for services I needed from the hiring family at the time. I really had almost forgotten it.” 

“It sounds like they want their sapphire back,” said Mycroft. 

“No, no, not the sapphire, just its value. All these years later, too.”

“How much is it worth?” I asked. 

“Maybe £50,000. Not enough to make or break a family fortune.”

“It sounds like a second-generation family member is short of cash.” 

“Precisely my impression, Russell. Mycroft, I assume you can get this kind of money ready to transfer?”

Mycroft looked aghast. “£50,000? You can’t be serious, my dear brother, in only one afternoon? It doesn’t grow on trees you know.” 

“It does, actually, my dear brother,” Holmes retorted. “I won’t actually give it to them, but if we want to see Watson again, I suggest we move quickly. Come, Russell, we need that car of yours,” he looped his arm with mine, heading for the door. Over his shoulder, he called, “we will stop by later tonight for the money, Mycroft. Cash, if you please.”

I heard my brother-in-law scoff at the request, but pick up the telephone all the same. With that, my husband and I left the house. 

.:.

The inspection of Watson’s office gave us no impression, nor did the stroll through the market where he was last seen. It seemed that this was only about the financial request for Sherlock Holmes. 

It did seem odd in that it was too easy, something that put both myself and my husband on edge. Usually people who entered into a battle of the brains with Holmes put up somewhat of an obstacle to navigate through. 

Holmes was sure that the money exchange would happen at the same place the sapphire was stolen from all those years ago. Our plan was to arrive with the cash in hand and weapons under our coats, enabling us to rescue Watson before his abductor knew what was happening. With luck, we could get the police involved as soon as we assured Watson was safe, and Holmes and I would be able to return to Sussex Downs the following night. 

Holmes and I split up that afternoon, Holmes going to investigate the club Watson frequented, and myself going to search his flat. We agreed to return to Mycroft’s home to rendezvous later that evening. 

I used the lockpicks Holmes had gifted me many years ago to gain access to the flat. It took me less than a minute; I really should encourage Watson to invest in better hardware for his door. 

The flat was untouched. From the few times I had been here previously, I knew the space well enough to tell it was still the same. There was the worn armchair adjacent to the fireplace, and the used tea cups in the sink, and the desk strewn with papers from his medical practice. Everything was ordinary. 

Except the smell. Kerosene. It wasn’t potent at first, but now I couldn’t smell anything else. It made my nausea return, the morning sickness I had been fighting off for days now. The cold tendrils of the sensation stretched from my belly to my fingertips, and I swallowed down the rising bile in my throat. 

I saw the trail of wet oil down the carpet, leading here and there down the hallway as it went through all the rooms. Not an accidental spill then, but intentionally placed. Someone planned to burn out Watson’s home, knowing one of his friends would be coming to look for him. Fear slid down my spine. 

I stepped backwards toward the door, knowing I needed to run, now, to escape the explosion of flames that was sure to start at any moment. 

Blocking my exit stood a large masked man. I had practically stumbled into his arms, and he quickly grabbed ahold of me. Before I could even scream, he pressed a cloth handkerchief over my nose and mouth. I tried to struggle, but it was no use. My mind raced, plotting together the pieces. This man had been here, waiting for someone to come by, either myself or Holmes. Holmes. How would he know where to look for me next? 

My eyes swirled with darkness, and that was the last thing I remember. 

.:.

I have no idea how long I slept, but when I woke I could tell it had been a long time. My limbs ached from being stagnant for too long, my back sore. Where was I? The air was cold and damp, the stone beneath me hard and unforgiving. I coughed as I came to, my muscles aching in protest. 

Bile rose in my throat, and I heaved onto the stones next to my head. I spat when the convulsions stopped, but the bitter taste lingered on my tongue. 

“Mary?” A soft, familiar voice sounded nearby. 

I lifted my head to see where it came from. I was in a cell, surrounded by brick and bars. Next to me, there was another cell, with bars between the two of us. In the cold and dark, there was a crouched figure, a man with grimy skin and clothing. 

“Mary, are you alright?” 

“Uncle John!” I exclaimed, and pushed myself to a crawl to reach him. Our hands met through the iron rods. “I’m glad I found you alive.” 

“I was hoping not to be reunited here,” he said. 

“Where are we?” I asked. 

“I am not sure,” he replied. “Whoever it is has been careful not to show their face or speak in my presence. I think it’s a trap though, a trap for Holmes. Was he with you, when you were taken?”

A weight sank in my chest. “No, no, he wasn’t. We were investigating separately for the afternoon,” my own memory of the day was still hazy from whatever drug I had inhaled. “We were planning to come and get you. What day is it?” 

“It’s been three days since I arrived here,” he said. 

That wasn’t good news. I had been unconscious for nearly two days. Holmes had missed the midnight deadline the kidnappers had set, or perhaps he had arrived and things had gone terribly wrong. I sat back on my heels, thinking this over. Whoever it was, they had kidnapped both myself and Watson, no doubt in attempt to lure Holmes here for the sake of rescue. Surely, he saw through the scheme? 

“Mary, I think they’re planning something awful to happen when Holmes arrives.” 

“Holmes was going to get the money from Mycroft to negotiate your release,” I said. “They asked for money if we wanted to see you alive again.” 

Watson thought this over. He started to speak, changed his mind, and closed his mouth again. 

“What?” I prompted. “What is it?” 

He hesitated. “I don’t think it’s about the money, Mary. It seems more personal to me.” 

I didn’t like the sound of that. If this was some type of trap to cause harm to my husband, I was not going to be the reason he walked right into it. “Well I’m not waiting for them to come back. We have to get out of here to stop Holmes before he arrives,” I said, reaching into my hair to pull out one of its pins. Quickly, I fashioned it into a shape for the lock on the door, and started attempting to make our way out. 

Watson sat hopefully in his own cell, watching me work. At long last, the lock clicked, and I twisted until the door opened. I felt triumphant. I moved down the little hallway and started on the lock outside Watson’s door, which took more effort than mine, but eventually opened as well. 

“The guard will be back any minute now,” he warned as we started down the hallway. 

“Let’s move quickly then,” I said. 

I could tell his hip bothered him as we set out at a quick pace, but there was no time to stop. We found a staircase and ascended to the ground floor. At the top, I poked my head around the corner. No guards. 

I gestured behind me, signaling to Watson that it was okay to advance, when suddenly a guard rounded the corner. We froze, still half in the stairwell, and the guard did not see us. He started whistling to himself, mindlessly strolling away. 

I did not have my pistol or pocketknife, and I assumed they were taken from me before I was imprisoned. Oh well, I guess we would have to do this without. 

When the guard had his back to us, I stealthily approached him from behind, then in one swift motion, wrapped my arms around his neck, my fingers finding the pressure point there and digging in. The guard let out a noise of surprise, which was muffled by my grasp on him, and it wasn’t long before he sank to the floor, unconscious. 

Once the coast was clear, Watson advanced to catch up with me. “Nice work, Mary,” he said, and we continued on our way. 

I still wasn’t sure where we were, but whoever owned this place was not short on cash. The castle, as I now realized it, had endless corridors and staircases leading in all sorts of directions. I lost track of how many turns we made, but no matter how far we continued, I couldn’t find a way out. 

Suddenly, we heard shouts coming from behind us. Someone must have discovered the unconscious guard and sounded an alarm. 

“Run!” Watson said, who was now limping painfully and breathing heavily. “I’ll hold them off, get to Holmes!” 

“Uncle John,” I protested, but he was right, we had to get to Holmes before he arrived and encountered whatever trap was laid for him here. 

“Now!” Watson yelled, already slowing to serve as bait for the guards, who were getting closer every second, by the sound of it. 

We exchanged a long look with each other, but time was running out. He nodded at me, and I took off running down the hall. 

Where to go, where to go? There was no time to look for a way out. The sound of guards faded behind me, but I knew I still didn’t have much time. 

I turned into a bedchamber and locked the door behind me. The room was grand, with a four-poster bed, a tapestry on the wall, exquisite chairs around a massive fireplace, and candelabras on either side of the window. 

The window, iron-sawdered like the rest of them, was going to be my only way out. I grabbed the candelabra and thrust it through the glass, creating enough room for me to get through it, and swept the metal across the windowpane to clear the glass shards away. I was only on the first story, it seemed, but it was a long way down, too long to make in one jump. I dove for the bed, stripping it of its sheets and tying them together to make a rope. 

A commotion sounded in the hallway, the guards approaching. I tied one end of my makeshift rope to the four-poster and threw the rest of it out the window. There was an attempt to open the bedroom door, and upon finding it locked, I heard what sounded like a very large man thrusting his bodyweight into the door. The lock rattled in its place; it wouldn’t hold for long. 

I mounted onto the rope of sheets and began my descent out the window, my head disappearing from sight just as the door burst open and the clamor of armed men entered the room. I heard them shouting and dared to look up. 

Two faces appeared over the window ledge, two strange men. They were yelling, one pulling out his pistol and aiming it at me. A gunshot sounded, making me flinch, but the bullet missed and hit the gravel below. “No!” the other yelled, grabbing the gun. “We need her alive to get to Holmes!” 

I felt the rope jerk beneath my hands as someone from above messed with my contraption. I wasn’t even halfway down the rope, but I could tell that I couldn’t climb down it in time. Someone in the room above was untying it from the bed. 

With a last look beneath me, the hard ground ominously looking further away than before, I leapt off the side of the building, and hit the ground with a jolt that traveled up my legs and back and jaw. I lay on the ground for a moment, stunned, before testing myself. My ankle hurt something terribly, but as I climbed to my feet, my ears ringing, I found I could still bear weight. 

I took off at a run, limping painfully, heading for the darkest spot along the trees across the grounds. I could make it, I needed to make it, to protect my husband, to save myself and our baby, to make Watson’s recapture worth something. 

I didn’t make it far. I didn’t even see the man coming. One minute I was running, the next I had a mass of muscle slam into me from the side, taking both of us to the ground. The air left my lungs without me realizing it was gone. Having not recovered from my first shock after jumping out of the window, my body screamed in pain, my mind filled with fog, and I could not coordinate myself to stand up. 

The mass was on top of me in no time, pinning my arms behind my back, his breath terrible and hot in my ear. “Hold still, you wretched woman,” he grunted. I struggled with whatever strength I had left, but when he cocked a pistol and held it between my shoulder blades, I complied. He smelled of sweat and smoke, but not the warm tobacco I was used to from my husband, no, this was stale and sharp in my nostrils. It made me want to retch. 

The man was easily a hundred pounds heavier than me, and he pressed against my backside. His muscles were solid and strong, unwavering in my struggle. “So you’re the Holmes whore,” he said into my ear. He grunted as I jerked my shoulders at the insult. “How much does he pay you to share his bed with him?” 

I writhed ferociously at the insult. 

“O-ho!” he grinned. “Not enough, I take it.” He pulled me to my feet, keeping his grip tight on me all the same. I couldn’t seem to catch my breath, my ribs ached from the tackle, and my ankle screamed in protest as I forced it to bear weight again. He half hauled me back to the castle, back across the grounds in the way I had just come. 

“I’ve got a live one!” he yelled as we approached the door, sneering at the other guards in the entrance hall. “She’s a spirited one, this.” We reentered the castle, and my chance of warning my husband faded behind me. I couldn’t stand it, didn’t want to take another minute of this. 

I threw my head back, colliding with something soft and crunchy, and stamped my heeled boot onto his foot. He released his grip on me momentarily, and I spun away from him. The others were on me in an instant, now a guard on each arm, holding me steady. 

“You little--!” he exclaimed in surprise. I got a look at his face now, as I hadn’t seen him before. His eyes watered as his nose started to bleed. His jaw was prominent, clenched in rage. The top of his head was losing hair, and his eyes burned like coals. 

I had no time to react, nowhere to go, I could only be held in my position and take it as he wound a muscular arm behind him. I did not scream. His hand impacted heavily with my face. I straightened after a moment, but his other hand was already flying, and the contact with the back of his hand on my other cheekbone sent my head twisting to the side, the area numbing for a second before erupting in pain. 

“Take her back below,” he growled at the others. “And make sure it’s locked this time.” 

.:.

I landed roughly on the stone flooring of my cell, my legs unable to keep beneath me and the guards shoved me inside. The door clanged shut, the lock reinforced with another chain and padlock. It wouldn’t matter now anyway; I had no more hairpins to use. 

Watson sat in the cell next to mine, just as before, except now looking more defeated. “Oh, your face!” he exclaimed when I turned towards him.

I reached a hand to my cheek, which still burned, and could feel the beginnings of my eye swelling shut. “I’m okay,” I replied, moving closer to the bars between our cells. “It will heal.” 

My ankle was also in bad shape from my fall out the window, but I didn’t want to mention it. It throbbed with every movement, and I desperately wanted to lay down on the floor and rest. 

He, too, had new bruises growing across his face, the welts still an angry pink, but I could see where they were starting to turn purple. 

“They got you too,” I said. 

He nodded. We sat in quiet for a little while. 

“Holmes will be okay,” he said, breaking the silence. “He will figure this out.” 

“I hope so,” I said. My husband would solve this, like he always did. The question was if he would realize it was a trap before it was too late. 

.:.

The next day passed slowly. Nothing happened. It was odd, to have the day in our cells, but no one came to us besides once in the morning and once at night to deliver a glass of water and a stale loaf of bread. We devoured both hungrily. 

That night, as I slept, I dreamed of the man with the rage in his eyes and his strong arms holding me down, my abdomen hurting as his weight pushed against me. The sharp pain woke me suddenly, and while the rest of the dream faded away, the pain did not. 

I whimpered, rolling onto my side in a fetal position. I felt a warm, wet gush between my legs, chilling as I turned. The air smelled of rusted iron, blood. The pain felt like a stake through my belly, burning hot, stinging and cramping without letting up. I knew that something was wrong, very wrong. The stake twisted, and I cried out in surprise. 

“Uncle John!” I called out, panic in my voice. My body was betraying me, betraying us, and I didn’t know what to do to stop it. 

I heard him sit up in the next cell, startled by the sudden noise. “Mary?” Watson said drowsily, sitting not a foot away in his own cell, the bars between us. “Mary, you’re bleeding!” he said. 

Tears pricked my eyes. I kept a steady hand on my belly, but I felt helpless, which was not a feeling I knew well. This seemed too surreal. I had just learned of the baby myself, and my husband didn’t even know yet. Holmes. My lips stifled another cry. 

Watson reached through the bars to me. His eyes were tired; he had been sleeping too. “What’s happened?” he asked. “Did a guard come back? I didn’t hear anything.” 

I shakily grabbed his hand. “No, no, it’s just me, I—” I cried out as another wrench of pain came from my belly. I didn’t know what to say. How does one say such a thing? The personal affairs of myself and my husband were private, and this felt obscene, embarrassing. What would he think of me? I already felt hot shame spreading across my face, not because I was with child, but because I was no longer. “Uncle John,” I stuttered, and I started to cry, really cry, my hand tightening on his. “Help me.”

I felt more blood leave my body. He stroked my hand. “Mary,” he said quietly. “Are you with child?” 

I softened my sobs, my breaths coming in raggedly. I nodded, my temple rubbing against the stone floor. 

“Oh, Mary,” he said softly. I didn’t look at him, but I heard the sadness in his voice, could see his expression in my mind’s eye. “How far along?” he asked. 

I hesitated. My lips trembled. 

“I’m a physician, Mary, it’s alright.” 

“I’m not sure. Two months? Maybe three?” 

He didn’t say anything, but he sat with me, there in the dark and cold, the sharp pains seeming to never stop, and the blood escaping my body without my consent. I cried, not necessarily for the pain, but for what it meant. “He didn’t know,” I muttered, the heavy regret on my chest. “He didn’t know, he didn’t know.” 

“Quiet down, child,” Uncle John soothed softly. “There’s nothing you can do now. I’ll sit with you. It will be over soon.” 

After that, I sunk into a haze in between, not quite conscious, not quite asleep. I was aware of Uncle John’s presence near me, and the blood between my legs, and the searing in my belly, but not much else in the physical world. My mind repeated ‘he didn’t know’ over and over again, as I mourned not only the child, but the husband who would only know of their existence after they were already gone. I felt the words surface to my lips from time to time. “He didn’t know, he didn’t know.”

I cannot recall how long I laid in agony in that cell. Hours? Overnight? The floor beneath me grew sticky with blood and sweat. I did not cry after that initial outburst, but lay in silence, enduring it. It seemed that the worst was past now, the searing pain now only coming in cramps, but my brain felt numb and foggy. 

I hardly noticed when a loud BOOM sounded from above, shaking the stones and letting dust loose from the ceiling. Another blast quickly followed the first, successfully pulling me out of my haze. Had Holmes finally arrived? Had that blast been the fatal trap we failed to warn him about?

“What on Earth...” Watson murmured, looking upwards. The silence stretched on for a long time. Too long. Almost. 

Another loud burst, but this time closer, at the top of the stairs that led into the dungeons. We heard the scratch of boots as someone quickly came down the stairs. 

“Russell?” the voice called out, and relief washed over me. It was Holmes. 

“Holmes!” Watson cried out. “Get in here, it’s Mary, she-- she needs medical attention,” he said quickly. 

A scuffle of boots as Holmes quickly approached the cells. I tried to lift my head, but as I moved I realized how much the room spun, and my head hit the stone floor again. “Russell!” Holmes exclaimed, hurriedly working on the locked door, trying multiple keys on the ring he must have taken from the guard. 

My eyes closed as the room lurched around me, but I could still feel, could still hear. I felt my husband’s hands on my shoulders, on my face. The smell of singed clothing permeated my nose. “Mary!” he called in attempt to rouse me, but I was too sleepy, too dizzy, and I could only feel his warm hand against my cold clammy cheek. 

“Holmes, let me out! She needs a physician,” I heard Watson next door. 

My husband paused, his arms still on me, holding me. 

“Sherlock!” Watson called again, voice cracking, and then I was gently set down, and before I knew it I had both Watson and Holmes over me, intelligible only from their rushed voices. Everything was so blurry; even when I tried to focus, I could barely make out the silhouette of my husband’s face, looking over me. 

“Holmes, she’s… she was…” Watson stuttered, but my husband cut him off with a bitter tongue. 

“I can see that, Watson. You say she needs a physician, so I suggest you do what a physician does!” I heard the spite in his voice, the pain. 

There was a lot of pressure on my belly. I scrunched up my face, too hazy to protest. My husband smoothed my hair and spoke to me. “Stay with me, Russell. Dr. Watson is helping to fix you.” I wanted to sob, but there was no energy left in me. This could not be fixed, anyway. 

More discussion, more arguing over my body. “We need to move, now,” Holmes urged. “There isn’t enough time.” 

The pressure on my belly relented. “That should help for now,” Watson said, stopping whatever it was he was doing. “Can you walk Mary?” he said loudly, “We can support you between us?” 

I wanted to say that I could, but I knew that I couldn’t; I was already on the verge of passing out, and my ankle was still bruised and stiff from the day before. I couldn’t communicate anyway. My mouth felt foreign, my tongue like sandpaper. 

“Her ankle, Watson,” said my husband, having noticed my injured extremity. As if reading my delirious mind, Holmes quickly lifted me in his arms like a small child. “We need to move,” he commanded Watson. 

My worries faded into the distance as he carried me away from that terrible cell. Underneath the scent of singed cloth and flesh, I could make out the scent of my husband. His coat smelled of his tobacco with the underlying sweetness of honey.

The light through my eyelids turned pink as we got outside, startling me. The sun was blinding, inhibiting me from opening my eyes every time I tried. Being carried involved lots of jostling, my ankle flopping painfully, my ribs bumping Holmes’s torso, my bruised face against his jacket. The cramping in my belly did not cease. I whimpered, audibly, begging for it all to stop. 

“I know, Russell,” Holmes panted to me, his breath ragged from carrying me so far across the grounds. “I’ve got you,” he said. “We’re almost there.” I let go of the need to be brave and surrendered myself to him. 

I heard sirens in the distance, then Holmes’s and Watson’s paces slowing. 

“Here!” I heard Watson call. 

The sirens got closer, then they stopped. There was a loud commotion all of a sudden, many people’s voices. Holmes set me on some sort of padded surface. Watson’s voice, in full doctor mode, rang out: “Mary Russell, twenty-eight-year-old female, presenting with significant blood loss, potentially broken ankle, facial trauma…”

Too many voices. Too much light. More pressure on my belly. Everything spinning. A needle jabbed into my arm. 

His voice came to me like a dream, through my brain fog, through the commotion all around us. “You can let go, Russell.” 

And I did. 

.:.

I woke in a white room. A very white room, unfamiliar. A hospital, then. I inhaled deeply, stopping short at the pain in my ribs. Those still hurt, but the pain in my belly was gone. 

I turned my head. Sherlock Holmes sat at my bedside, his sharp grey eyes meeting mine, and the warm familiarity of them calmed me instantly. “Hello, Russell,” he said softly. The left side of his face was pink and half an eyebrow was gone. Burned, I realized, but already healing.

“Holmes,” I rasped, my throat dry. He poured a glass of water for me. I attempted to tilt the glass to my lips, but my shaking hands let drips of water overspill the edge of the glass. Holmes’s hands wrapped around mine, and he helped me hold it to my lips. The cold refreshment of the water felt wonderful. 

“Where are we?” I asked. “Your face-” I lifted a hand to him. 

“France,” he replied, setting the glass down. “We took you to the nearest hospital, once we got out of that dungeon. I had a little mix up with a bomber on my way to get you.” 

“The guards!” I exclaimed, more memories coming back. I dropped my hand, attempting to sit up. “They’ll find us, we have to—” 

“Shh, Russell, it’s alright. They won’t chase you anymore.” He put a hand on my shoulder and eased me back into my bed. It was probably for the best anyway, as multiple parts of my body seemed to scream in protest as I moved. There was a bulky sort of bandaging on my ankle, keeping it immobile. “You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

“What happened?” I asked, pressing my hand delicately to my cheek. There was a small bandage where it felt bruised, and my eye hurt very much when I blinked. My head ached, and my body felt so heavy. 

“The man who kidnapped you, a former acquaintance of mine,” he paused, “he’s dead. By his own bomb, unfortunately. One meant for me. His guards have been paid off and released. You and Watson were rescued. It’s alright Russell, it’s all over now.” 

“Where is Watson?” I asked. 

“He’s just gone to get coffees. He’s hardly left at all these few days, and has been here with me through this whole time.” 

We sat quietly. My hands rested on my belly. I looked down at myself shamefully.

“Holmes, the baby—” 

His eyes caught mine, the grey not sharp, but soft now. 

“We don’t have to talk about that now,” he said quietly, clearing his throat. “We can get you transferred to Dr. Watson’s care now that you’re awake, and we can travel back home.” 

“I’m so sorry—” I said, tears forming in my eyes. It hurt, hurt very much, and it wasn’t the bandages or the injuries. 

Holmes wiped an escaped tear from my cheek. 

I heard Watson’s footsteps in the doorway. He entered, holding two cups of steaming coffee. One of his eyes was bruised dark purple. “Mary, you’re awake!” he exclaimed, but when he saw my face and knew I’d been crying, he set the coffees down. Holmes did not turn to face him. “I’ll leave you two for a minute,” he bumbled, and quickly left the room.

“Let’s get you back home,” said Holmes, lifting my chin with his fingers, and I nodded. His lips remained in a firm line, his expression holding. 

.:.

A bruised face, including a cut along my cheekbone that requiring bandaging. One broken rib, with others bruised around it. A sprained ankle, as I somehow hadn’t broken any bones in my foot, but it required a brace and bedrest all the same. 

All the injuries were nothing to what I had lost. 

My husband and I returned to our home in Sussex Downs, and he set me up comfortably in our bed on the first floor. I remained in bed that first week after our return, regaining my strength. Every day I felt a little better, my blood regenerating itself in my body. 

My husband was healing, too. His burned face, which he told me was from a bomb going off too close, was almost back to a normal color, and his eyebrow grew in. It did not look like it would scar. He was uninjured from the rest of my rescue, and he tended to me dutifully as my multiple wounds healed. 

We did not talk about what he had learned when he walked into the cell that day. 

Occasionally the phone would ring, but it went unanswered. I noticed this, but did not inquire further, as usually Holmes took the calls and was off on another adventure, but not right now. 

Holmes spent many hours at home with me. Mrs. Hudson maintained the house and prepared food for us, which Holmes brought to me. We ate together in the pair of chairs by the fireplace in our bedroom. Dr. Watson visited daily, and after a week of visits, reported that all was mending as it should be. I had fresh flowers brought to my room every day, hearty food, a warm bed, a husband who doted on me, played chess with me in the afternoons, and read to me when my eyes were too heavy to read the page themselves. 

It was now the beginning of June. I took a nap that afternoon, and when I woke, Holmes stood at the bedroom window, his back to me. He smoked his pipe pensively, the tufts of smoke rising above his head like a storm cloud. 

He must have sensed I was awake, because he spoke to me. “You were pregnant,” he said quietly. It was not a question. 

My heart squeezed; I knew this conversation would come. “Yes,” I replied. It still felt so new, so fresh, and all the words I wanted to say were caught in my throat. 

“When did you know?” he asked, taking another puff off his pipe. 

“Not long,” I said. “Before we got the call about Watson and left for London.” 

He nodded slowly, smoking. I didn’t know what to say. 

“I should have told you,” I mumbled. “I wasn’t even sure it was true myself, and I wanted to be sure before I told you.” My palms started to sweat, heat rushing through my body. “I’m sorry I didn’t.” 

He didn’t reply for a long time. “I thought we couldn’t have one.” 

“I know,” I said. Surely at some point during our multiple years of marriage this would have happened by now, but somehow it hadn’t. Every passing month was like another brick in the wall confirming that it just wasn’t in the cards for us. 

The silence dragged on, broken intermittently with the sound of him puffing on his pipe.

“Were you happy?” he asked me suddenly, his back still to me as he looked out on the garden. “Before. Were you happy to be pregnant?” 

I paused. This was not the question I had been expecting. Had I been happy? There were so many emotions I felt during that time, I hardly registered its truth before it was taken away from me. Despite claiming indifference, despite preparing myself for being infertile, there was some relief when I made the discovery. It felt good, the instinct to protect what was inside of me, part me and part Holmes. “Yes,” I replied. “Yes, I was.” 

At last, Holmes turned to look at me. His eyes were thoughtful, his mouth on his pipe. “I see,” he said. His eyes studied my face. 

“I understand though,” I said. “I understand if it was an unwelcome situation for you. We haven’t really—we never—” I stopped and took a breath. “If you would like to forget this ever happened, I understand.” 

His brow furrowed, and he sat on the end of the bed, next to my legs, mindful of my still-healing ankle. “Forget?” he said. “No, I don’t think I would like to forget.” 

I blinked. 

“This baby was,” he paused, “a surprise, yes. But Russell,” he paused again, taking another puff of tobacco, “I think you and I would have been very happy about it.” The corners of his lips turned up, creating a gentle, yet sad, smile.

Tears welled up in my field of vision. He pulled out his handkerchief, dabbing it gently near my eyes. 

I felt silly, crying over this, this situation that hadn’t ever come to be. But now that I knew the option was available to us, the ability to have a child shared between us, it was as if the floodgates had opened and it was what my heart needed. 

“You are the woman I truly love, Russell, I hope you know that,” he said, stroking my hair. “I cannot deny you. If you want a baby, I will give you one,” he said. “We will make one.”

I nodded, thinking. My heart ached in my chest, aching with loss, aching with need. 

“It will be another exciting adventure for us,” he said. “One I am not too old for,” he smiled. 

.:. Epilogue .:.

At Christmas, we hosted a small gathering in our Sussex cottage. The party included Mrs. Hudson and Dr. Watson, and even Mycroft agreed to stop in for Christmas dinner. 

Things were good for us. We had not left the country again, instead staying local. The phone did ring, and sometimes Holmes would answer, but whatever type of adventure he got into kept him near town, at least. 

I had not joined him on a case in some time, but out of choice, not need. He wanted me to stay home for a while, for my own safety. Occasionally he did telegram at the oddest of hours for my consultation on a mystery. The days would come again for us to join each other as partners in crime-solving, but those days would be after the baby came. 

I had a proper baby belly now, and was over halfway through my pregnancy. We had conceived quickly once we intentionally tried, quicker than either of us thought we would. Holmes had noticed first this time, his astute mind noticing the changes in my body even before me. I had denied him at first, not believing it to be true, but yet here we were, expecting a baby at the end of spring. 

I had remained petite for the longest time, but now even the loosest of chemises could not hide our secret anymore. 

At the dinner table for the Christmas toast, Holmes had us all raise our glasses. 

“To my devoted wife,” he began. “This year has not been an easy one darling, but dammit we made it through.” His glowing gray eyes met mine, proud. 

Cheers sounded off around the table. They all knew what had happened in that dungeon cell in France, knew the kind of recovery I needed when we returned home. 

“Oh, and one more thing,” he added, as a hush fell around the table. “Russell, you are my partner through and through, my match, my equal.” A couple of awes sounded around the table. “We will be great parents.” 

Wide eyes met with mine from all around, and I blushed. 

“What?” Dr. Watson said, daring to smile already. 

“Oh, my dear!” Mrs. Hudson exclaimed and extended her arms to me to wrap me into a hug. “My dear child!” 

Mycroft sat, his jaw agape, looking from Holmes to myself and back to Holmes. 

Over Mrs. Hudson’s shoulder, my husband winked happily at me. I smiled back, my hand on my belly where our life grew. Our new adventure had already begun.


End file.
